How Charming
by RoxanneReluisant
Summary: In which Watson loses his wits, gains them again, and then loses them very quickly. A brief Sherlock/Watson vignette. Warning: MalexMale content!


**How Charming**: A very quick Sherlock/Watson vignette. Warning: MalexMale content!

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"That's it! John, I don't care if you live here, I refuse to spend time in the same place as such an arse!"

Watson winced as the door to 221b Baker Street slammed. Very slowly he glanced over to Sherlock Holmes, who was lounging on the couch with a violin tucked under his chin, gazing blandly at the ceiling.

"She's a nice girl." The dark-haired arse of a detective said lightly, before dragging the bow very gently across the strings. The note hung in the air as Watson sat back in his armchair and crossed his arms over his chest.

"High-functioning sociopath?"

"Hmm?" Holmes played a higher note this time, before dropping the bow on the ground and letting the violin rest on his chest.

"You said to Lestrade, 'high-functioning sociopath'."

"Yes, I did."

"Aren't sociopaths supposed to be charming?"

Holmes gave him a look, slowly sitting up. He was only wearing a pair of flannel pants and a robe, which was open. He hadn't gotten dressed in three days. "I don't think I get your meaning, doctor."

"I mean, Holmes," John said in irritation, leaning forward to look the other man in the eye, "that serial killers, rapists, lawyers, corporate businessmen and the like are all endlessly charming. They charm their victims, they fool their compatriots, no one suspects that they would ever hurt a fly until the trial."

"That is true of the typical sociopath." Holmes acknowledged, using long, thing fingers to pluck at the violin's strings, creating a gentle medley.

"Well maybe you should try to be a little more typical!" John finally said, his voice raising slightly as he heaved himself out of the chair, grabbed his laptop off the side table, and walked stiffly up into his room.

Several hours of infuriated writing later, he slumped back in his chair. Incorrigible Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. Impossible and undeniably fascinating. But one thing he certainly wasn't was kind. And making it entirely difficult for Watson to have any kind of romantic relationship with anyone else. Holmes was like an ever-expanding cloud. He had his nose in everything and that included Watson's dating life. Or lack thereof. He hadn't even been able to see Sarah until today. But Holmes had taken over that too.

Still. Some of the best days of his life. Even with Moriarty hanging over their heads. Even with the relatively constant danger that Watson ended up in. Holmes was quite good at getting them into it, but equally good at getting them out of it. It was a bit of a toss-up.

He trudged downstairs with a desire for tea. Holmes was nowhere to be seen. Strange, since Watson generally heard him slam doors or pout when he was in a mood. Not to mention the taller man hardly ever left the apartment unless he was on a mission for something in particular. Watson rolled his eyes as he set the kettle on the stove and tried to find a clean mug in the sink.

"John."

He turned his head quickly. Holmes rarely called him John. And never in that tone of voice before. "What're you..."

Sherlock was standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing actual clothes. In fact, wearing quite nice clothes, his hands in his pockets, curly hair combed and an almost unnerving smile on his face. The doctor was really unable to speak as Holmes stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the counter

"What exactly are you doing?" Watson said, having gathered his wits about him once more.

With two steps Holmes was directly over him. "I am capable of being charming, Doctor Watson."

"What..." He seemed to have lost his wits again.

"Charm. For you, Watson, I can lay it on. Thick as you like."

A pair of lips met those of John Watson sharply. The veteran found himself falling against the sink, and then he found himself leaning forward. Holmes grabbed at his waist. Their mouths tangled together for a split second longer, and then they broke apart.

Holmes left the room, wrapping a scarf around his neck and grabbing his coat. "There's a second woman been found dead. Greek letters carved into her skin. Lestrade hasn't called me in, but he will."

He was out the door in a flash, and Watson reached over to turn off the stove. Two fingers pressed against his bottom lip, and he waited until the thundering of steps ceased.

"Damn you Sherlock Holmes." He hissed, but a smile was tugging on his lips as he reached for his jacket and slammed the door behind him.


End file.
